I was a truant brook setting off
On its own from the hillside stream,
Charting its joyous path, contentedly
All at once, an ancient Rock,
Stood as a stumbling block
And came to halt the cheery journey.
The brook can but stagger, try to
Push on and falter.
Succeeding in merely letting trickles
Of Itself escape.
As I baulk at this block
That lets me not put pen to paper
And write freely as before.
But the brook will, in time
Trickle slowly, surely,
Steadily through cracks and voids
Until the ageless solid mass
Gives way.
But only to meander on, with none
Of its infant insouciance
Or jauntiness of stride.
And in time, with meaning to the meander
With purpose to the prose
On the journey to the infinite sea
(Radhika AR, Jan 2006)
